More Malefaction on Morse Lee
I am enraged and exasperated. I'm sick, and sick of people. I hosted another midnight rendezvous with the police last night, but this time I wasn't the one who called them, and I was far less impressed with this bunch than the last. I was so fiercely annoyed at having to throw something on (clothing torments every fever-raw cell) and answer the door that it wouldn't have mattered who was standing there; the cops were lucky they were cops, because this time I picked up the industrial hammer-sized sharpened pickaxe Jim gave me after our unsuccessful bid for some convention or other (the handle is engraved "City of Evanston- Your Pick in 2006"). I couldn't wait to brain somebody with it.
I had gone to bed early, about 9:00 p.m., hoping the Nyquil rushing in my ears would be enough to drown out the cacophony upstairs, the laughing and stomping and music. It worked for a while and I must have missed the action yet again, because at 12:10 a.m. there was a knock at the door, which I had a hard time opening since I'd closed it over the extension cord I use to plug my truck in.
The pompous old balding jerk (yes I know who he is, and no, I'm not going to tell you) who came in first- weilding his badge as if I might question that he was a cop- asked, "Is this Number Two?"
"No. This is Number Five." It's clearly marked.
A grey-faced hulk who could have been a body double for Lurch lurched in behind him and growled, "Are you Emmy?" I silently wished for Sam and Ammon, polite, concerned, and hot.
"No. I'm Adriane."
Baldy adopted an accusatory tone. "Were you just on the phone talking to someone?"
"No," surprisingly. "You woke me up when you came down the stairs. I didn't know who you were so I picked up my cellphone in case I needed to call 911." He asked me the same question three more times in the exact same words. I noticed a young female cop I've never seen before peering in the doorway with a sheepish expression.
Finally Baldy got on the radio. "Number Seven, we're confused." Pause. "No, we're not with Emmy." They filed up the stairs, leaving the door at the top open, which I hate because the light from the church across the street pours in, and the heat from down here pours out. I heard the cops a moment later in the foyer, their voices competing with a woman's sobs and a man swearing. I pulled the covers over my head and passed out.
There was no time to get to Public Health for a Strep test today, what with the 2100-C Turbidimeter crapped out and the sensor at the Twin Ridge tank on the fritz, probably frozen (weather.com: 17 degrees, feels like 0). There were Bac-T's and TOC's and Alkalinity to take, and I felt pretty good all day despite catching the occasional whiff of Vicks VapoRub. Put a dollop of that goop on the floor of your shower (somewhere so the stream of water isn't direct but still contacts it), turn the water as hot as you can bear it, and voila. Instant relief. Just be prepared to have people snidely comment on your new perfume.
I had gone to bed early, about 9:00 p.m., hoping the Nyquil rushing in my ears would be enough to drown out the cacophony upstairs, the laughing and stomping and music. It worked for a while and I must have missed the action yet again, because at 12:10 a.m. there was a knock at the door, which I had a hard time opening since I'd closed it over the extension cord I use to plug my truck in.
The pompous old balding jerk (yes I know who he is, and no, I'm not going to tell you) who came in first- weilding his badge as if I might question that he was a cop- asked, "Is this Number Two?"
"No. This is Number Five." It's clearly marked.
A grey-faced hulk who could have been a body double for Lurch lurched in behind him and growled, "Are you Emmy?" I silently wished for Sam and Ammon, polite, concerned, and hot.
"No. I'm Adriane."
Baldy adopted an accusatory tone. "Were you just on the phone talking to someone?"
"No," surprisingly. "You woke me up when you came down the stairs. I didn't know who you were so I picked up my cellphone in case I needed to call 911." He asked me the same question three more times in the exact same words. I noticed a young female cop I've never seen before peering in the doorway with a sheepish expression.
Finally Baldy got on the radio. "Number Seven, we're confused." Pause. "No, we're not with Emmy." They filed up the stairs, leaving the door at the top open, which I hate because the light from the church across the street pours in, and the heat from down here pours out. I heard the cops a moment later in the foyer, their voices competing with a woman's sobs and a man swearing. I pulled the covers over my head and passed out.
There was no time to get to Public Health for a Strep test today, what with the 2100-C Turbidimeter crapped out and the sensor at the Twin Ridge tank on the fritz, probably frozen (weather.com: 17 degrees, feels like 0). There were Bac-T's and TOC's and Alkalinity to take, and I felt pretty good all day despite catching the occasional whiff of Vicks VapoRub. Put a dollop of that goop on the floor of your shower (somewhere so the stream of water isn't direct but still contacts it), turn the water as hot as you can bear it, and voila. Instant relief. Just be prepared to have people snidely comment on your new perfume.
posted by A at
5:46 PM
2 Comments:
Holy $&@! my life is simple and user friendly compared to what you have had to put up with lately!
Oh but it's so fun. And I have marvelous secrets buoying me along, so no worries. Besides, an engineer's life can't possibly be that user friendly, can it?
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